


21:  Make It Happen

by light_source



Series: High Heat [21]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- No reason, says Tim, between gasps of breath - that we can’t just make this up as we go along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	21:  Make It Happen

\- It’s a magnet for movie stars, says Zito. - And a lot of people from the production side, you might not recognize them, but they’re players. Last time I was here, he continues, - Leo di Caprio was here with his latest, I think it was Bar Refaeli.

\- Who? says Tim.

\- Supermodel, says Zito.

\- Doesn’t even sound like a person, says Tim.

Zito raises his eyebrows.

As they walk up from below on Sunset, the Chateau Marmont looks like Dracula’s castle, slate-roofed turrets, carved stone, and narrow windows, stacked up the side of an unexpected hill. But what’s not-Dracula about it is the palm trees and the Calvin Klein billboard and the fifties-style marquee. Like almost everything else Tim’s seen in LA, the place looks real from a distance, but the closer he gets, the more it looks like something that was constructed on a studio back lot.

//

At the door, when Zito whispers something in his ear, the big guy in black unclips the velvet rope and they’re in, just like that, past the crowd of smoking, sulky partygoers, arms crossed and hips cocked, that’s overflowing the walkway.

There’s one room that looks like an old-fashioned bar with stools and everything, but the Bar Marmont proper is a series of narrow rooms like train-cars, each lined with a row of tiny tables-for-two on one side. The red lighting reminds Tim, oddly, of the way spaceship cockpits always look in the movies, and when he looks up, he sees the ceiling’s encrusted with hundreds of bats, or birds, or butterflies, or something else that was once outside flying around. As Tim slides into the banquette, hands materialize out of the darkness, one of them attached to a very tall waitress in a tiered dress the size of a shirt, her bare hip next to Zito’s shoulder. She’s dealing them two narrow leather-backed menus and her lips are moving, so she must be talking. But the clamor in the room is like the thunder of a waterfall.  Tim shrugs, and with his eyes and a jerk of his chin he suggests that Zito order for them.

There are drinks followed by more drinks. Tim’s first looks like pond water, so he drains it in one gulp, hoping that it’ll at least bring some light to his little personal shaft of darkness. By the time the food arrives, on small plates that are still too large for the table, two of Zito’s girlfriends have joined them, sliding into the impossibly narrow spaces with a gracefulness that no doubt comes with practice. Tim only remembers their names for about forty seconds, but it doesn’t matter. They both know exactly how close they have to lean towards Tim and Barry to hear and be heard, and there’s a curious intimacy about the conversations that follow, as though they’re sealed together in cells walled by noise.

By this time Tim’s three or four drinks gone, and his girl, the one closest to him, has this marvelously glossy long straight hair that’s probably red, but who can tell with this lighting? He’s usually shy, especially with women, but she’s got the gift of making him feel like an old friend, and pretty quickly he’s answering questions about San Francisco and telling her about Seattle and she’s laughing at his jokes, even the lamest ones, in a way that makes him feel like he invented the world.

When he looks over at Zito he realizes with a shock that’s not buffered by the alcohol that they could be on different parts of the planet. Zito’s girl has her arm draped around him, and he’s smiling at her, nuzzling her neck, below the chandelier-sized earring on the short side of her asymmetrical hairdo, looking for all the world like he’s planning on taking her home tonight.

//

Zito’s walking slowly, both hands in his pockets, as though he’s chewing on a thought. Tim slows to match his stride, dodging parking meters and the occasional late-night dog-walker. Cars are parked two and three deep along this part of Sunset, and a couple of black-tied valets are chasing in and out of the ranks of enormous SUVs and luxury sedans.

\- Tired? says Tim.

\- No, not really, says Zito shortly.

The silence persists as they find their way to the car, and it only seems to thicken as they make their way back through the red-blinking late-night traffic out of West Hollywood and up into the hills. Tim feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out, reads a text, smiles; after a few minutes, he taps one back.

When he looks up, the blue light of his phone screen reveals that Zito’s got that blank look on his face Tim’s seen a few times before, as though he’s somewhere else entirely.

Zito’s driving absent-mindedly, so slow off the mark at one green light that the drivers behind him honk. At the gate, he pulls the car in crookedly, and he has to get out of the car to punch in the passcode. When he gets back in, Tim’s looking at him.

\- What’s up with you? asks Tim.

Zito meets his eyes for a moment, and then the look solidifies as his eyes narrow and shift forward. His fingers are tapping restlessly on the steering wheel.

\- Nothing, he says. - Nothing worth talking about.

They’re out of the car and walking toward the house, the crickets thrumming in the background. Once they’re in the front door, Tim drops his sweater on one of the couches and rifles the pocket of his jeans for a small sterling-silver case and a lighter.

\- I’m going outside, he says without turning around. - Night.

//

He curls up on one of the cushioned lounge chairs out by the pool and lights a joint. As the drug slowly blurs and softens the rush of his thoughts, he picks out in the valley below the places he and Zito have been in the past week - the spires and lights of the Chateau Marmont; the orange-dotted glow of the sodium lights on the Strip; that unlit dark space to the east that’s probably Runyon Canyon, where they’ve been running in the mornings.

It’s chilly out here, so after a while he goes back to the house and snags his sweater and a couple of the flimsy-looking throws that are draped over the couch-backs. He also gets himself a bottle of water from the fridge, thirsty from the all the booze they’ve been drinking and hating the dry mouth that comes with smoking dope.

Back outside, he wraps himself up in the smallish blankets like they’re shawls. He fills his lungs with deep breaths of night air, which is still soft even though the temperature’s dropped. The moon’s just rising, and the sky is yellowish with city light. The stars he can see are far-flung enough that he can actually see how they fit together in the sky, remember the names of some of the constellations. He extends his hand like a protractor in front of his face and tracks across: the two dippers, Draco, Cassiopeia, Lyra, Vega. And at the edge of his hand, Mars.

\- What’s up? It’s Zito.

\- Jesus, you scared me, says Lincecum. - Didn’t hear you coming.

Zito smiles and squats next to him, settling gingerly into his knees, twisting one of his feet to get comfortable. He smells like soap and his hair’s wet. His thick cotton fatigue sweater’s buttoned all the way up the neck.

\- Stars and planets, says Lincecum. - Here, give me your hand. He takes Zito’s right in his left and spreads it wide, using the fingers of his right hand to point through Zito’s. - This is how you measure. It’s fall, so the big dipper’s on your left. That red one - can you see it?

\- Kind of. It’s blurry? Tim nods. - But only if I don’t look right at it, Zito continues.

\- Yeah. The edges of your eyes can do stuff that the main parts can’t, says Tim. - That’s Mars. The red planet.

\- Where’d you learn all this? asks Zito.

\- You know how sometimes you have a teacher who’s just, you really click? My eighth-grade science teacher, Mr. Baldwin. The things he taught us just kind of stuck with me. He used to meet us out on the football-field bleachers at night and show us stars and planets and shit.

A little embarrassed at this speech, Tim falls silent.

\- Are you OK out here? asks Zito.

Tim nods and yawns a little, stretching. - Yeah, I’m good. Are you?

\- I’m OK now, he says. - Sorry about earlier. Some stuff I’m still trying to deal with.

\- No reason you can’t tell me about it, says Tim. - Is there?

Zito pulls a chair up next to Tim’s and folds himself into it. Tim cracks open his cigarette case, extracts another joint.  He lights it, and when the tip glows orange, he hands it to Zito.

\- No reason, Zito says after a moment, blowing the smoke out of his nose, - except that I don’t usually talk about it. I’m kind of out of the habit.

\- So, says Tim. - What is it? You’re into something kinky you haven’t told me about, what, horses or sheep? God, I hope not.  Bondage and discipline? You actually have a wife, two or three wives, chained up in the basement of a house in San Diego?

Zito’s silent.

\- This is about Haren, isn’t it?

Zito nods.

\- Let me, says Tim. - You guys were involved.

When Zito doesn’t respond, he continues.

\- It started off casual but then it got pretty big pretty fast. The front office found out. No? OK, then, most of the clubhouse knew. Your standard don’t-ask-don’t-tell-don’t-talk-about-it-for-fuck’s-sake. Those were good years for the team. Both of you guys were pretty indispensable; no one was gonna get in the middle of that. No big deal as long as you kept it on the down-low.

\- The hot-and-heavy wasn’t a big deal, but it got serious, and that was the no-no part. It got to the point where the two of you were gonna have to fish or cut bait. Somebody was gonna have to do something.

Zito nods. He’s not looking at Tim.

\- And he couldn’t face being called a faggot. Or maybe it was you - you couldn’t. Probably both of you. Fuck it, there’s not that many guys that’d be up for dealing with that. They were talking about trading him. You were already an FA, there was a big-time bidding war going on.  You had a ton of suitors, and Oakland wasn't one of 'em. You were out of there anyway, New York or Florida or Texas.

\- So he’s a pretty laid-back guy, he took the path of least resistance. He picked out a girl - it wasn’t that hard, he’s into girls too. And they got married. And his mom cried at their wedding. And now he’s on his way to having a couple of kids. And they do the charity fundraisers together. And there’s articles about him in SI, pictures, the whole thing. And.

He pauses. Zito’s looking at the center of the night sky. Over his shoulder, Tim notices with the eighth-grade part of his brain, the quarter moon’s that much closer to zenith.

Tim continues. - So.

\- Everything’s back to good now, smooth as silk, Lincecum goes on. - You guys are still the best of friends. It’s just that you’re the part of his past he doesn’t talk to her about.

\- Bravo, Timmy, says Zito after a while, evenly. - Bravo.

 - I’ve seen some of the footage of you guys, dugout, interviews, when you were both in Oakland, says Tim.  - And I’ve seen what you look like when you talk about him.

Zito pinches what's left of the joint between his nails and sucks down the last hit. With his thumb and forefinger he flicks the roach into one of the planter boxes.

\- I figured I’d get over it, says Zito. - And I have.

Lincecum’s silent for a while, letting that hang there between them.

Tim coughs, his throat raw from the night’s libations. - He’s - I been watching - he’s had a fucking amazing year. Top-three ERA in the AL, says Lincecum. For some reason, he's having a hard time saying Haren’s name out loud.

\- But word’s out that the A’s are trading him to the D-Backs anyway, right?

Zito takes charge of his own few moments of silence.

\- Let’s go in, says Zito. - It’s getting cold out here.

//

The house has held on to some of the day’s warmth, and the lights inside are inviting, low and amber. Tim suddenly realizes that he’s tired and that his hands and face are glazed with cold. He turns to face Zito, who’s sliding closed the glass doors behind them with one hand.

Zito’s eyes are narrowed, his mouth open, and with his free hand he’s stroking his face with his thumb and index finger, tracing the edges of his cheekbones and jaw under his skin, thinking.

\- It’s because of you, says Zito quietly. - I can’t, I don’t know -

He can’t seem to finish the sentence, and Lincecum does nothing to help him.

\- This bar thing, says Lincecum, after a long pause. - That shit. It’s gonna come back to bite you in the ass.

\- I know. We’re all used to doing what we have to do, Tim continues. - Baseball’s all that. You get so used to it you stop asking questions. But this bar thing, this girl thing, it’s like a whole new level of ‘I’m fucked,’ Barry. And you’ve got your arms around it.

There’s a long silence. Nothing they say is going to change anything.

\- So I’m on that plane tomorrow, says Tim. He sucks down the last of his water and sets the empty bottle on an end table.

\- I know, says Zito. - Yeah.

They’re both standing there, their arms crossed, not knowing what’s next.

\-  Armistice, says Lincecum. -  Fuck if I'm gonna let this shit spoil my last night here.

He closes the distance between them and slips his arms around Zito, resting his head against the left-hander’s chest. Tim’s hands travel up and under the hem of the thick, soft sweater. Zito’s not wearing a shirt underneath; it’s just bare skin. Tim’s hands are cold, a shock, but a welcome one, against the radiant warmth of Zito’s back and his waist and his belly, which shiver under the touch.

When Tim pulls away a little, Zito can see that Tim’s eyes are half-shut, his eyelids blistered red, his brow rucked. He raises his lips, warm and wet, to Zito’s, but Zito pulls away, his mouth dry and hollow.

\- You’re stoned off your ass, you fuck, says Zito.

\- No shit, says Lincecum. - I was done with being drunk, and it’s been that kind of a night.

He grins, lopsided, goofily, with those teeth that remind Zito of an animal’s, his dark eyes nearly disappearing into his cheeks.

\- You can’t hold it against me, says Tim. - You’re pretty wasted, too. God, Zeets, you’re such an asshole sometimes. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you.

Tim leans forward and presses his mouth against that spot where Zito’s jaw meets his neck, kissing, and then the kiss becomes a suck, his tongue swirling against this sensitive spot so suggestively that Zito feels a plume of heat flash up from his sacrum to the surface of his skin, lighting him from the gut. Zito tries to stay rigid at first, tries to push back, but as Tim tongues him harder and wetter, he loses track of this admirable intention. Oh god, he thinks, it’s gonna leave a mark.  And then, suddenly, he doesn’t care.

Zito's skin begins to flush with pleasure underneath Tim’s mouth. When he feels Tim’s chest heaving, pressing against his, and sees his eyes at half-mast, his hands are all over Tim’s neck, which is warm, sweaty, his hair already wet at the nape. Zito finds himself pulling Tim closer, murmuring words he himself doesn’t understand.

When Tim finally breaks away, he leans back a little and takes a hard look, as though he’s gauging Zito’s expression, wondering.

Zito's mouth is still filled with words.  He feels like he should say something - anything - but then Tim reaches over and brushes back a lock of soft dark hair that’s fallen forward into Zito’s eyes.

\- _Sshhh_ , Tim says softly in a rush of breath, the way you’d calm a child or a horse.

He puts the flat of his fingers against Zito’s mouth for emphasis. Then his palms are on either side of Zito’s face, fingers spread, and his eyes are wide open, that amazing green color, like the ocean.  He’s got this smile on his face that’s sweet and sad and slightly insane, just off-kilter enough to make it impossible for Zito not to smile back.

\- So take me to bed, he says. - How many times do I have to say it?   _Make it happen._

And all Zito can think is that his surfboard’s gone, the leash’s broken, and it’s time to dive under the swell and trust, hope, as all experienced surfers do, that the wave won’t crush him.

//

\- No reason, says Tim, between gasps of breath - that we can’t just make this up as we go along.

It’s a little hard to talk, but talking is good, it’s the right thing to do, because the alternative is coming, and he’s close but he’s not ready for that yet, not yet, _not yet._

Tim’s on the bed balanced on his haunches, his knees spread and legs folded beneath him, his thighs trembling with tension and pleasure. Zito’s working his cock with his mouth and his hand, using a rhythm that’s just unpredictable enough to make Lincecum crazy, and Zito’s also got a couple of wet fingers inside him, probing into that other sweet spot. Tim’s hips buck in spite of himself, and he’s wanting, right on the edge, where Zito always gets him.

 _Too fast too fast too fast,_ Tim thinks blindly - he wants this not to be over. Yet.

\- I love making you come, says Zito, rising up on his own haunches, his own hard cock red and engorged between them. Tim takes it in his hands, the skin silky and dry and soft, and wraps his fist around it, pulls up, hard and fast, in a way that makes Zito catch his breath, and Tim feels a bolt of triumph course through him.

Zito’s hand’s still stroking Tim’s hard-on, but now he’s also licking into the corners of Tim’s open mouth, his tongue teasing Tim’s parched lips; it’s there, and then it isn’t, and _uuunnnnhh._

\- I love the way you scream when you come, Zito continues in a low and dirty voice in between tongue swipes -and I love the way you thrash around, and the way your face gets crazy. When I make you come I can’t think why we don’t just give up everything else and do this all the time.

One of his slick hands is still wet and busy on Tim’s cock, varying the pressure just enough and using the flat of his nails in a way that makes Tim’s balls tighten and his ears start to ring. He sucks in his breath. Oh, fuck. _Just not right_ _that anything should feel this good._

But now, Tim realizes dimly, Zito’s using his other hand and his teeth to tear open the serrated edge of a condom packet, and he’s expertly unrolling the condom with his slick hands, easing it onto Tim’s aching cock, rolling the edges down to the base.

\- I know you’ve been thinking about fucking me all night, says Zito, - so stop thinking about it and make it happen.

By the time Tim realizes what’s happening, he’s on his back and Zito’s hands are pressing down on his shoulders. Zito’s made himself ready, slippery and open, and when he places the tip of Tim’s cock against his slick asshole, starts working himself down on it, Tim’s mouth is gaping with astonishment, and then with pleasure, and he’s beyond what he could have believed. To be. Possible. On this earth.

Zito's riding him, his beautiful dark eyes trained on Tim's, his nipples hard, and Tim's using his fist to stroke Zito's hard cock, and he's moaning. And he bends down to cover Tim's mouth with his own, and  _oh._


End file.
